Cocoon
by Queen Shnoogleberry
Summary: Some more slashangst from me... a songfic to Assemblage 23's Cocoon ...which I think describes Holmes fairly well... and please... if you don't lke slash, DONT READ!


I own neither 'Assemblage 23's'- "Cocoon" or the almighty "Sherlock Holmes" series… as, sadly, it belongs to Sir. Arthur Conan Doyle… bows down to A.C.D. and commits seppuku over the atrocities I've created…

Even though I know it's only chemical  
These peaks and valleys are beginning to take their toll  
Try to convince myself that all it takes is time  
But the most derisive voice I hear is mine

Holmes took his syringe from his morocco case and examined the tip. He knew that his actions pained his friend, but he didn't realize how much. If he knew that as his friend watched him, he hated himself for not saying anything, he would have stopped. Alas, such was the irony, for his friend said nothing, thus Holmes knew nothing.

His thrice daily injections were the result of both his close contact with his friend and the rigid society in which he lived. Together, combined with an undying love for the doctor sitting not three feet from where he stood resulted in a near madness state that could only be managed by the use of the chemical in his syringe. Had he deduced the doctor's feelings for him, he would have knelt before the other man and told all.

He drew into the tiny glass chamber a small amount of liquid, small but more than the previous time. He didn't look at his friend as he jabbed the point into his arm, he was afraid of what he might see. If the pain in his eyes were enough, he would have been forced to stop. If he did not pollute his veins, he knew that he would loose control and confess that which would ruin everything.

The confession of his feeling would be the end of their friendship and result in his total break down. At least this way it was gradual and he had more time. It was entirely possible that he could last for the rest of his life. It was also possible that he would go mad and hang himself. The main reason he didn't tell his friend and then do so was Mycroft. His elder brother knew everything, the result of too much brandy on his part and his brother's cunning. He had been a huge comfort; someone one could have complete confidence in was worth more than their weight in gold. Holmes also knew that if he were to confess then somehow, though he had full confidence in Watson's honor, it would cause his brother's ruin. How could he do such a thing to one who had been so kind?

Out of options, he flooded his vein with a foreign fluid and was lost, if only for a short while, in its poisonous effects.

It opens all the scars on me  
It leaves me shaken in my belief  
It takes my hand just to drag me down  
It makes me a stranger in the crowd

He turned to look at Watson, now that is was too late. The doctor looked both melancholy and infuriated. It was both a self-loathing and a loathing for his friend in his eyes. Holmes sat on his customary chair, opposite him, and opened an old book. It was an old collection of crime records. Trying his best to commit it all to memory, he read each line as if he were trying to digest it.

"You never look at me before you do it." Watson's voice invaded his thoughts.

Holmes said nothing. What could he say? It was impossible to say anything without sounding guilty or uncaring. Holmes was one, but would do everything to hide it, and certainly not the other.

"You do realize that you're poisoning yourself? Soon you will be totally invalid and I shall have to watch you all the time-"

Holmes rose and left the room, slamming the door after himself. His thoughts were becoming dangerous. Lust inflamed his veins in a way that not even cocaine could ever match. He paced his room, while fighting the most impure of thoughts. It was only when his legs began to cramp and his mind clear from its once blissful chemical distraction that he sat on the edge of his bed.

The room was dark, as he had not lit the gas. It was the second half of twilight and he heard the clink of china from outside the door and Watson telling the long suffering Mrs. Hudson that laying out a second plate was useless. Knowing that if he did not eat, as the doctor expected, he would be subjected to another lecture come morning, he left his room just as the older lady was leaving.

"No… I shall eat something tonight…"

Give me isolation just for now  
I feel a hard rain coming down  
I promise that I will be back soon  
But for now I'll return to my cocoon

He held his knees as he sat in his chair by the fire. It was an hour until dawn, approximately, and he had yet to retire. He could not sleep, no matter how much morphine he took. His dreams had, for the past week, been filled with horrifyingly vivid fantasies of Watson. No, not fantasies, nightmares horrid, tainted, sickening, lurid, lustful, vivid, wonderful nightmares. He hated himself. If he could only forget his lust… but it had gone beyond mere lust… it was now an obsession. An all consuming obsession.

It was becoming worse, as whether it was his body growing accustomed to the cocaine, or his obsession growing, but his drugs could not control his emotions any longer. The end was near for him and no matter which direction it took for him, he was doomed. He did not even attempt to entertain the hope that his friend would return his feelings. The most he could hope for would be a quiet acceptance. But he knew the most likely would be a polite and slow distancing, along with a promise to tell no one. It was possible that Watson would diagnose his ailment as a loss of femininity in his life and either take him to a whore house or try to arrange a marriage for him.

Both thoughts were repulsive. He would prefer an endless isolation.

There is thunder in the distance and the sky grows gray  
There is lightning in the clouds in search of prey  
It's not a matter of if as much as when  
The clouds will break and the rainfall will begin

Deciding that he could no longer stand it, he rose and went to his bedroom. After pacing for a half hour, he fell onto his bed. After a few minutes, he mustered the energy to remove his clothing and crawl between the sheets. His hands ran through his hair as he tried to think about anything but his friend.

Watson flooded his thoughts and, like a breaking dam, it all washed around him. He could remember, quite clearly, then images of his friend, this one time they had been on a case, one summer, and he had fallen into a stream. He could see, in his mind's eye, the way his wet cloths had clung to his body, showing every curve, every muscle, every… his thoughts trailed off into oblivion and all he was capable of understanding was his carnal passion.

Helpless to resist, his hands slid under the blankets and headed to his mid-section. 

An hour later, he managed to rise long enough to clean himself, before he fell asleep, exhausted, and for the first time, without dreams of his friend. 

It opens all the scars on me  
It leaves me shaken in my belief  
It takes my hand just to drag me down  
It makes me a stranger in the crowd

When he woke, the next afternoon, the sitting room was not lonely, as he had expected.

"I came home early today. What happened? I tried to wake you, but you just slept on…?"

"I hadn't slept for several days…"

"Are you feeling better now?"

He looked into his friend's honest eyes… so oblivious, so caring… "Physically… I fell much better…" He fell face down on the settee. "But emotionally…"

"Is something wrong?" Watson rose, went to him and placed his hand on his friend's shoulder.

"I just can't take it anymore…"

"Holmes…"

"I need to leave London…"

"Leave…?" Watson backed away.

"Yes… I am going to take a holiday… I can't say when I'll be back… may be days, weeks, or even months…"

"But Holmes!"

"Please… don't try to intervene… it's best for me… I just can't take the stress of this life right now…"

"I'm just worried…" He muttered sadly, but he added only in his head, 'worried you won't come back…'

Give me isolation just for now  
I feel a hard rain coming down  
I promise that I will be back soon  
But for now I'll return to my cocoon

He left that day. He had no idea when or even if he'd be back. All he knew was that he had to leave. As the train sped to the north, toward Scotland, all he knew was that he felt more alone than he ever had before. It was raining and grey streaks covered his window.

When he arrived in the large capitol, he gazed around it like a lost child. He recognized no one… It was so like London, with the great buildings and the busy people and the beggars, but so different…

He checked into a hotel and booked three nights there. Those three days he spent wandering around the city. Alone.

When they were over, he headed to the farthest regions of Scotland. Somehow, out in the country and not surrounded by people, he felt less alone. It was almost like a tonic for his soul… but he still missed his friend. He rented a small cottage on the sea shore and there, he spent his time either wandering the cliffs or reading.

Cracks in the chrysalis spread out like tiny snakes  
That hiss a litany of rumors and mistakes  
But I'm afraid their cause is fraught with futility  
There is nothing more that they can take from me 

One morning, long after he had arrived, he woke up and just knew. He knew it was time to return to England. He knew that he had to face his friend. It was now, while he felt strong, as well as had another identity secured, to tell all.

He was home within two days. Mrs. Hudson greeted him in her usual warm way. He even gave her a small hug in honest pleasure to see her.

Running up the stairs two at a time, he burst into the sitting room, to see his friend, looking harried and thin, longing on the settee and reading the latest issue of 'Strand'.

"You're home!" He cried as he rose to greet his friend.

Holmes smiled, for once assured that he was doing the right thing. "Yes. I am."

It opens all the scars on me  
It leaves me shaken in my belief  
It takes my hand just to drag me down  
It makes me a stranger in the crowd

"Watson…" He said, standing, resting his arm on the mantle piece, after a rather pleasant meal. "Watson… I must talk to you…"

"Certainly, Holmes… What is it?"

He walked over to the settee and sat down beside his friend. "I must… confess… something to you…"

"What is it?"

"If… If I were to do something… illegal… something that helped no one, yet harmed no one… would you tell?"

"Never! So long as no one was harmed in anyway…"

"But if someone were harmed… but on their own free will…"

"Well… then wouldn't it be their fault?" He was confused. His sense of morals and obedience to the law fighting with his loyalty to Holmes. His loyalty to Holmes won. He trusted the man, after all…

"I suppose… but say it was you that might be in danger… say your reputation…"

"I… I trust you… besides, you said it was my choice, did you not?"

"Yes… but you may be seen as an… accomplice… then your reputation would be-"

"Oh DAMN my reputation! I care more about you!" Loosing himself for a single second, he grabbed the collar of his friend's shirt. Leaning over he placed a kiss on the stunned detective's lips. Holmes remained frozen for a mere second, before he melted, passionately, into his friend, now lover's embrace.

Watson pulled away, with a frightened look in his eyes. Holmes gave him a quick kiss before continuing his speech. "It seems you are willing…" He pushed his lover down onto the settee and lay on top of him.

He unfastened his cravat and collar while kissing him. His lips trailed down onto his chest. Watson arched to follow is retreating lips as he rose.

"I love you." Holmes whispered. His lips were red and his eyes burned with a passion unrivaled by any case.

"I love you too, Holmes…" Watson was breathless as he gazed into his lover's eyes.

Finally, both men had gotten what they had wanted for so long…

Give me isolation just for now  
I feel a hard rain coming down  
I promise that I will be back soon  
But for now I'll return to my cocoon

The next morning, Holmes gently shook Watson awake.

"Hmmmm… Holmes...? What is it?"

He kissed his sleepy lover's temple. "It's time for you to sneak back to your own bed…"

Watson snuggled closer, pressing their bodies together and shooting waves of smoldering lust through Holmes. It was nothing like what he had experienced before. It was a combination of the carnal lust he was accustomed to, but also a deep satisfaction at knowing that Watson was his.

"I don't want to…"

"You have to. We could be caught!"

Watson cuddled even closer and kissed Holmes. "But I still don't want to leave your nice warm bed…

"Well you have to." Watson pouted. "Oh… don't! You can come back here tonight!'

"Alright… I shall be…"

"And the next night?"

"Forever." He leaned over and kissed him as he tied the belt of the dressing gown he was borrowing from Holmes.


End file.
